At night, when I look at the sky, I wonder what frequency our grief resonates at.

All those people, around the world, who spend those quiet moments silently calling the dead back to them.

There comes a point when I realise the dead cannot come back, ever.

It doesn’t matter that I sleep in our old bed. Or that I refuse to move any of the paintings he hung up. Or that I can’t move out of the flat we lived in together.

What am I holding on to? None of that is going to bring him back.

I close my eyes and I think of the twelve men who will die that day by their own hand. And the next day. I know this number will tick on and on, unless we stop calling to the dead and instead decide to turn our gaze towards the living.